Phantom of the Opera II
by Disgraced Angel
Summary: The opera populaire is reopening andErik is forced from solitude andbitter scheming. Meg returns in hopes ofa better future, while it is unknown if Christine is alive. A scandelous tragedy occours when everyone collides becuase Erik is back for revenge...
1. Chapter 1

The Phantom of the Opera II

By Disgraced Angel

Disclaimer: The Phantom of the Opera was originally written by Gaston Leroux or something like that, and I in no way shape, fashion, or form own his characters or the captivating music created by the man who did such a splendid job on Cats The musical…you get the picture.

(This story takes place two years after Roual and Christine have fled from the said Opera Ghost. Christine would be eighteen, Roual is twenty, and the phantom would have been around thirty six…….?)

Chapter I

Over time, over a long period of time, dust coated over memories, whether good or bad, and for a while, at least, he could forget that someone or something may have been where that dust now lies. When things remain undisturbed, his memories often faded into the deepest depths of his twisted soul. Dust only blankets sad remainders of his life; it acts as a cold barrier to reality. And that is how it felt when you entered the Opera Popular.

The dim atrium was dusty of course, since no soul had entered it in two long empty years. The red and gold walls that had once reflected the prestige and wealth of the opera now were crusted with char and stains from the water that leaked into the room from the enormous holes in the roof. The tile floor was all that remained unscathed. Yet it too screamed out from neglect with the half burnt tapestries that littered it, and the headless statues that were broken and strewn around. Yes, it appeared as though nobody had indeed entered into the Opera in years…

"It's quite dismal, is it not? I can not scarcely believe how anxious those two gentleman were to sell it. From what I've seen on the outside, only the stage and the front atrium were damaged. There is still a whole five floors to be used, my dear, and mark my words, we shall use them well indeed."

For the first time in two years, the doors of the Opera Popular were thrown open. The soft smell of clean rain, untainted rain, filled the atrium that still held lingering smells of the fire. The middle aged man and his young wife stood on the threshold of the room, taking in the sad sight that greeted them.

"Oh darling, it looks oh so very awful. You can't mean to fix it up, can you? After those wretched tales we've heard," cried the young lady, who was not yet in her mid twenties, was tall, and yet looked so small in comparison to the older well dressed man at her side. Her full lips held a perpetually petulant pout. She had long blonde hair, rich furs, and, had she been a tad bit taller, Spanish and red haired could have easily been mistaken for La Carlotta. Almost. Perhaps this countess was not quite as evil, simply young and annoyed. She glared up at her husband expectantly, who, with his lightly bearded face gave her a pensive look. He patted her on the head, and then strode into the room.

"I fully mean to fix the place up, my dear. I am sending out invitations to some of the best names in Opera to come. We shall scourge this place of all the horrid rumors that have been flying on idle tounge. I know full well this was one of those confangled electric accidents. These things happen when you meddle with new contraptions. There is plainly nothing here but a bit of dust and dirt." He smiled at his wife, and held his hand out to her. "You really should come in, Cecelia. You'll ruin those new furs I bought you."

Cecelia sighed, and cautiously stepped to where her husband, Count Joseph Le Dupree, was gazing calculatedly at his new Opera house. "See, darling. No Ghosts here…"

Above them, perched upon Apollo's Lyre, on the very topmost floor, a cloak whipped in the onslaught of rain and wind. The dark satin blew like an ominous flag, signaling the utter chaos that was sure to follow. The cloak's owner was nowhere to be found….

Construction began days after the count and his countess left the "empty" opera house. Soon, men were surrounding the place, filling in holes, repainting and repairing. Everyday the count came to watch their progress, ever eager to start up the business. Cecelia always stood glumly by his side as he supervised the construction.

Meanwhile, all of Paris was alight with gossip as the day grew shorter and shorter until the world famous Opera was to open. The wagging tongues found the few that escaped the opera's fire, including the two Giry women, now nestled in Poverty in northern France.

The little brown house was on the outside of town, cold and care worn. A small fence pretended to protect the house, but no one had dared venture too near besides. With little money and unemployment, Meg sat Inside a room down at the end of the creaky hallway where Madame Giry was asleep on her bed. A slight draft blew in the window, but as Meg closed it, a rattling cough rasped from her mother's throat, and Meg forgot all about the bone creping chill settling into her soul.

"Tell me the story just once again mother. Tell me another one about _him._"

The old woman smile disappeared and the wrinkles that appeared like magic in the face of the tragedy stretched and crinkled. Madame Giry waved a bony hand and took a shuddering breath. Meg drew closer to her dying mother, and held back the tears she shed angrily when she thought of the man she was in love with…the one who had also ruined her chances at fame and her and her mother's happy life.

"Oh lets hear something different, whispered her mother sadly. "How about the day when little poor Christine Daae came to live with us. Weren't we so happy…the three of us?" This time, Meg did let a few tears fall as she remembered her dead friend. "Yes mother. Let's hear of Christine…" Meg for a moment thought bitterly of how even in death, Christine managed to charm her way into everything. As she stared at her tired looking mother, however, the anger dissolved, and she let out a silent reprimand at herself. _It is not Christine's fault he loved her…_

As Madame Giry told her grief stricken daughter the tale, outside little droplets of rain began pouring onto the little house nestled beside the town's cemetery. The wind tore at the wooden slats and seeped through the ceiling. As the story came to a close, Meg was on her knees in front of the fire place setting up the last of the wood, and reaching above her to grab the flint. Silently, she got the fire started, and managed a smile as her mother gave a satisfied sigh.

"I'll go, mother. I need to go retrieve the clothes. They are probably awfully wet by now," Meg said as she moved towards the door. She was about to leave when her mother's usually cracky voice stopped her. This time it was strong and fluid, dripping with emotion. Meg turned around in surprise.

"Promise me when you go back, Meg…Promise me that you will claim that which is rightfully yours. You were always the best, always…and _he_ will give it to you now that dear Christine is gone. He always hated to be alone…"

Meg looked at her mother with widened eyes. She had no need to ask her mother what she meant. With a nod, she turned and left her mind as cold as the rain that beat down on her as she hurriedly tore the clothes off of the line. When she returned to the room, her mother's lifeless body lay still on the bed. Her hand flickered in the firelight as Meg noticed she held his mask….

By the end of six tedious months, there was no hide nor did hair find of any "ghosts."

The architects and stone masons worked tirelessly day in and out to repair the damage, repainting, replastering, and hanging a new chandelier. This chandelier, silver and colossal, was the pride of the Counts, since he had it imported all the way from India. The new stage, even larger and more proportional, gave the room better sound, and it was designed to carry the sounds further. The audiences chairs were replaced, the statues in the atrium replaced with newer, more lavish designs. Every room down to the second floor below was touched up until every trace of the fire had left.

When Cecelia had asked why no one dared down into the fifth, or fourth, or even third floor below, he merely replied with a condescending glance at her, "We need not waste efforts or time down there. I want this place fit for business by November." Cecelia, however, was more often than not in the mind that all those rumors were true, and was always in half a mind to believe the gossip she heard from the scullery maids.

The count and the countess slept in their quiet home near Manchester until August arrived and the re furnishing was complete. They took most of their fancy belongings to the Opera when it came time to move, and finally settled on the third floor where Mm. Fermain' and Mm. Andre's office had once been. Cecelia's parlor and botanical garden were where Mme. Giry's room had once been on the second floor. Yet strangest of all, her instrument room, where daily she would toil over her harp, was in Miss. Daae's old dressing room. The servants and cooks and grooms were all placed in the first floor. The ballet dormitories were still on the second floor, and in time, little Jemmies came to fill them up, and minor actresses and hopeful chorus boys came to sing for the Opera. But not a soul came to try for the leading female or male parts. It seemed the idle tounge did have some influence on the Opera's success.

The count and countess were discussing that particular annoyance over tea one morning, when a mysterious letter had appeared on the counts table. It was addressed to him, and written; it seemed, quite recently. The count, taking notice of it, impatiently snatched it from his wife's hand as he wiped his face with a damp cloth.

"Dear Count, you appear to be in dire need of leading roles, no? For the male part, such an important role cannot be filled with _just_ any chorus boy…But I have a perfect match. It seems very few have not been discouraged by the strange incident of three years ago. I have here, however, an ambitious young sir who would do quite nicely. He used to be affiliated with the English Opera in London, and numerous singing troupes. Barnaby FitzHenery will do well, I think. But for the female role, I fear, you need someone our Parisians are comfortable with. You cannot entirely change the Opera, do you understand? The name Giry shouldn't ring too far from the mark, if you catch my drift, sir. Perhaps if you could find the time to inquire about these two, you would find it very worth the effort…Sincerely, the Persian."

As the count read this aloud, a deep crinkle appeared in his brow. _Giry…where did that sound so familiar_, he thought. "Giry…Giry…," he muttered, casting the note aside. As he looked up to the equally confused face of his bored wife, he mused, "So, some Persian is interested in my efforts, it would seem. How curious." At this, Cecelia snorted, something she rarely did, and smirked at him ominously. "Maybe this Persian is the Opera Ghost in disguise. You heard tales about the notes Mm. Andre used to receive? Ah…I grow weary with this whole business."

"I shall inquire about these two, My dear, and in the meantime," he said, ignoring her remark, "I suggest you try doing something you are good at, like being seen and not heard…Why don't you go observe the ballet girls, or go help the kitchens? Make yourself useful, for you are annoying me." At this, he stood up, and with the letter in hand, left his glaring wife at the table.

"Perhaps I shall indeed make myself useful, _dear Count_. Perhaps I shall do some inquiring of my own…"

Chapter II

The little Meg that had once been as innocent as Christine stood stock still in front of The Opera Popular. The outside looked as though not a day had passed since the tragic fire. The fire that only the two managers her mother, and herself had escaped from. Tears pooled in her eyes as she thought of her Christine, the only sister she had ever had. With a shudder, she tried not to think of the bodies, the skeletons that might still lurk un- aware in the opera. She had a brief memory of Joseph Bequet for allowing herself to push back all those terrible memories and proceed to enter through the tall imposing oak doors.

Meg was taller now, a woman, and she carried herself as such. Behind her she wheeled in a large suitcase, full of things she had half hazardly packed in her haste to return. The rythematic groan the wheels made disturbed the silence that should have prevailed.

Now that she was here, vile memories threatened to overwhelm her. The inside, where last she remembered fleeing from as the flames grew higher, was now busy with maids waxing the floors, or ladies and men exchanging whatever business they had with this mysterious new manager. New tapestries lined the walls, none bearing the unmistakable smell of smoke or death that still lingered on certain of her things. The grand staircase was full of oblivious people in a hurry to ready the opera house for its first Gala in three years. The only remainder of that terrible night was whatever lurked down in the bottom depths of the opera, down past the boiler room, with the men like devils shoveling coal all day and night, past the dark cellars, until finally, past the very lake Christine had once sailed across with the dangerous Phantom.

Meg, never timid, never shy, suddenly found herself tense and without words as she made her way down into the depths of the Opera. What she had hoped to find, was the charming Madam Giry ushering all the Jemmies to the practice, or absent minded Andre giving them wan smiles, or even that odd Persian lurking near the kitchen, always thinking, never speaking. She walked briskly up the stairs until she found herself in front of the Ballet hall. AS she furtively glanced down the hall, she saw little ballerinas scurry towards the main dance room, and with a wistful glance at her suitcase, followed them.

The ballet teacher was no Madame Giry. She was younger, vibrant, and red haired. With some twenty students under her care, she took the task in stride, and with authority assembled the girls into a line. "First position little ones! First position," She said softly, taking no heed of her visitor. Meg settled herself in the shadows, attentive and somber as she saw what a poor job the ballet was doing already. She resisted the urge to correct a little girl named Margaret with her foot work.

For an hour Meg stood apart from them, taking note of how awful they were. The older ones, the best they had, made her clumsy Christine look like Meg at her finest. With a tut, she finally strode forward, and found herself face with the ballet instructor. "You are teaching them wrong, Madam. Please allow me to show you how it is done," Meg said quietly, meaning no offense. She was dressed in a raggedy muslin shift, not the appropriate dress for it, but offered all the same. The class went silent as the red haired woman examined Meg with raised eye brows and an astonished smile as Meg began to stretch.

"Oh? Well, I would welcome any help I suppose, if you are up to it?"

Meg only smiled back, acknowledging the challenge. She could be looked down for her poverty, for her lack of riches, but never for her dancing. Within a beat, she was doing a piece from Hannibal, her favorite, and in no time, the count was there beside Madame Faya, nodding approvingly.

"What is your name, my little strumpet," he asked as Meg gathered her breath and smiled at Faya. The ballet teacher gave her a reassuring smile as Meg turned around in her fading ballet shoes to inquire at the man addressing her.

"Meg Giry, your new leading Soprano."

The Gala was one month away, and finally, the Opera house was complete. The manager, quite a bit less tolerant that the last two, had done a good job indeed in filling each position. He allowed Meg to help instruct the Jemmies, and his wife to do all the tedious arrangements of introducing and finding a patron. His maestro, a very well taught man, took his job seriously and with pride, and before long, had taken up the impatient articulate attentiveness that Mm. Lefavire had done. The little Jemmies were always replicable, and so were the maids. That Barnaby FitzHenery had also come, and with him the approval of Paris. Suddenly, with no word from any Opera Ghost, the old suspicion that had surrounded the Opera left, and a new hopeful generation arose. Paris had indeed missed its world renewed Opera Popular.

Meg stood, uncomfortable in her tight blue taffeta dress, on stage surround by little Jemmies and stage hands. Her eyes shone with that usual over brightness that being the lead had given her. As she stared around, she noticed with satisfaction that Christine was not here to steal her glory. She was the best.

As she thought this, however, her heart ached inside. She knew she should weep for her friend, but in the midst if success, it was hard to toil over what was gone. Beside her, the suave Barnaby, clad in a rusty red tunic flashed her a smile that she felt made her blush, and as the maestro called for attention, she let those memories slip. "The Gala is in two months, Ladies and gentleman. Just two short months! Mademoiselle…please, stop making calf eyes at the young man and concentrate," The Maestro muttered. A general laugh went around as Meg further blushed, and Barnaby muttered, "Make them all you wish, Madam." But it was not him she was thinking of…

Meg took her place on left center stage and cleared her throat. It was a pity she was not Christine in singing. She would not awe, but she would suffice, for now. As she sang her aria, Barnaby smiled, and far across the room, the count watched with equeal satisfaction at his new leading lady. "Ah…business is good, indeed."

Chapter III

The Countess was slumped in a high baked chair with a full bottle of Sherry as her midnight company. From down the hall, she could hear the high notes from some aria being sung by Meg Giry. The orchestra was accompanying her, and together the music penetrated the young ladies thoughts and left her feeling tired and annoyed. No matter where she was, the happenings and the obsessions of the opera surrounded her.

She thought scornfully of her husband at this. It had been many days since she had even spoken with him. Wherever he was, he was always to busy to acknowledge her. Cecelia sighed, and opened up the sherry. Without her husband to chide her, she swung the bottle high and drank the fiery liquid down. Her mother always told her marriage was lonely. "I am too young to waste away my days as an old maid…"

Life was lonely in the opera for Cecelia. The only thing that even gave her drab life half of an existence was the mystery she was determined to solve. Every day she went about, searching and trying to uncover the identity, or at least the story of the famed Opera Ghost. She went to the townspeople, and asked what they knew. Most of the time she received a horrified glance and a quick piece of advice to not snoop. That had only made her more determined.

What had made all it worth while, however, was when she spoke to Meg Giry about it. Everyone remembered the little blonde angel that had been Christine Daae's constant companion in the glory days. And no one knew more that little Meg about the events of the opera.

As it had happened, Meg was very reluctant to say much of anything about him, except to tell about the events that led up to Ms. Daae's death. Once Cecelia had heard the tale, she was filled with an indescribable feeling. She was obsessed to find more about him, but Meg finally concluded one day, that The Phantom was dead. When Cecelia heard the same from anyone who knew anything, she felt as empty as before. The last feeling remaining in her was that of rage. Rage aginst her husband for his neglect…and utter rage aginst the little Meg Giry who was the center of her Husband's world.

As she took another drink from the Sherry bottle, Cecelia let the wicked thoughts run through her head. The velvet bag next to her called to her angry thoughts. "Some days I wish this Phantom was real. Then perhaps he could carry me off into nothingness…"

Meg was sweating in her dress as she stood alone with her reflection in the dressing room. The mirror that had once opened and admitted Christine into the Phantom's home was cemented shut, and Meg gazed longingly at it. "Oh…why can you not sing and comfort me as you did Christine? Where are you Angel of music? Have you truly died my dear Phantom," Meg whispered. No body answered, and so she got up and left.

As she made her way through that silent passage way to the back of the stage, she felt all the excitement of the audience run through her. _This is what I wanted…to be the best….I want this,_ she thought. As she came up to the stage, she received a look from Barnaby that she didn't dare contemplate. The cast took their spots as the orchestra started up.

The performance ran smoothly as the count watched with glee behind the stage. Young Meg was singing softly to Barnaby, and the little well taught ballet was running their steps perfectly. Without missing a beat, the song finished and the orchestra took over as Meg left the stage for a costume change.

When Meg returned, she smoothly glided around the stage to where a makeshift door was standing. Behind it was the stage where the actor playing her husband would enter. A light rap expectantly took her to the door, and she called in her soft singsong voice, "Why who could this-a be?"

The count smiled and turned to face the audience as he waited for the familiar voice of all those long days of practice to fill the room. Instead, he heard nothing, and the audience that was smiling and laughing a second ago now stared back on stage with looks of horror. The count spun around and suppressed a shout as a figure loomed on stage, slowly advancing on the open mouthed Meg. The figures cape whipped behind him, as a blood red rose fell from his long fingers. The white mask that covered his face gleamed in the candlelight of the chandelier.

The count was quick to react and he called a stage hand to his side with a sharp gesture. "Quick Mortimer. Go to the prop room and fetch me a blade or a pistol. Be quick, man!"

"Erik," A woman's voice moaned. Meg could not mistake the beautiful yet haunted woman that ran from the stage. Another gasp racked through Meg's body as she fainted to the floor with a scream.

(Please REVIEW and I will write another chapter and will be so happy! Please?)


	2. Part II

The Phantom of the Opera II

Please please please please please please please REVIEW! Sing in and REVIEW! It makes my day and motivates me to write! If you do…I...uh…I will love you forever! Yes! So Please…. Every five reviews I get I will write a new chapter. I promise.

Part II of The Phantom of the Opera II (repetitive, huh?)

As Christine Daae turned on her heel and tore out of the Opera house, chaos sprung up in the audience, and the count yelled out, "Everyone remain calm!" The audience may have dismissed the stories as rumors, but there were those there that had a friend of a friend whose cousin or whose aunt or whose relative had been in the fire. Those that were somehow associated with the famous fire were considered the authority on the matter, and as Mortimer returned breathless with a saber, hurried whispers broke out and the entire crowd looked on the brink of stampeding out of the opera.

Meg opened her heavy lidded eyes and pushed herself up on her elbows. She ached and felt little bruises appear on her back as she stared wildly around at the startled faces of the audience and the stagehands that were surrounding the Phantom.

As she climbed to her feet her heart beat frantically and she stumbled over to where the door was being blocked by Mortimer. The count was holding the curved blade in his strong grip and there was a nervous smile playing across his features. The phantom was oddly blocked in.

"Don't touch him," Meg screamed as she planted herself in front of the Opera ghost. She tried desperately to put Christine out of her mind and drew in a raspy breath. The count gazed at his star as though she was mad. "My dear, this accursed er…_man_…is playing a terrible jest on my behalf, and I will not have it!…he is a criminal. Stand back."

Meg remained where she was and turned to face Erik. Her eyes pleaded with him to escape, for she knew of the trap doors that littered the stage, and that if he so wished, he could vanish or at least fight. She remembered the night he fought his way out with Christine in his arms. But he stood still and his blue eyes silently remained blank.

The count raised his blade, taken aback at the man's silence and lack of resistance. Meg's hand shot out and she tried to slap the blade away, but two men behind her reached forward and pinned her arms to her sides. She struggled, and felt the curtain brush aginst her back as it tried closed in around them. Outside, a few men ushered everyone out with promises of a full refund. But the curtain remained stubbornly half open, and the audience refused to leave without at least discovering the end to this story.

There was a yell as Meg tried to lift her head and see what was in front of her. The phantom was pushing aginst the bulk of the stagehands, and the count was trying to hold order with the blade that was pointed precariously at the Phantoms back. With a desperate twist, Meg was free and she ran to her beloved and pulled him away.

They got to the end of the stage as Meg registered the smell of alcohol ensnare itself in her nose. Suddenly, a large man stood in front of her and with rough hands pushed her aside. He grabbed at the Phantom, and held him in a death grip as the count came and, looking as though he would sincerely regret it, reached forward with a shaky hand and tore away the white ivory mask. An all around gasp filled the hall and once again Meg fainted, her body limp in Barnaby's hands as he caught her just in time.

The count pushed back his barely controlled anger as he put a hand on his wife's arm and pulled her to the front of the stage. The mask in his hand fell to the floor and Barnaby reached out a hand and took it. The audience was laughing, and the Count threw out a fake harsh laugh that only his wife knew was as false as the Phantom she pretended to be. "What a funny joke, no? As you can see, certain of my employee's find the whole Ghost business rather amusing," he said with a grin. His vice like grip squeezed tighter on his pale wife's arm. She stumbled. "I am so sorry to have interrupted your performance! It shall commence it ten minutes time…In the meantime I ask for your patience as we revive dear Ms. Giry. Thank you."

As the count dragged his wife back to their apartments, Meg was being doused with water by a little ballet girl who was giggling hysterically. Meg came to and groaned as tears made their way down her red cheeks. Was that her Christine? Or was it another joke? Did all this mean that the Phantom was truly dead?

Meg once again climbed to her feet and soon all the cast was merry faced and assembled on stage. Nervous laughter went around as Meg opened up the door and the actor portraying her husband came out. Everything seemed so funny now that it was all a joke. No body commented on little Meg's strange display of behavior, or the countesses. All were simply relieved.

When the performance was over, many swore to buy more tickets, commenting that this was the most fun any had ever had at an opera. "You'd swear that it wasn't rehearsed," one man said to his wife as they climbed into their carriages and left the Opera. She nodded, and as they drove out of sight, two pairs of red eyes watched the scene below from Apollo's lyre.

Christine Daae sat with her dress spread around her on the ground of the fifth floor under the looming statue of Apollo's lyre. It was a clear night, and a cold wind threw an icy blast in her face. She felt some relief as she recalled the unveiling of the fake Phantom. At least it was not him…Her long brown curls flew back and she shivered inside Roual's cloak. As she thought of her husband, left oblivious back at home, she smiled ruefully. He thought she was attending to a sick friend as he and his family celebrated the holidays.

She felt terrible for abandoning the swear she had made two years ago as they fled from the burning Opera house. "Never go back, Christine! Swear to me that you will forget that man and your life there! Swear it," He had cried as they rode away with all due speed out of Paris. "I swear it," she had replied.

Her reason for coming back brought hot tears to her eyes. Meg, her Meg was not dead, but singing at the Opera. The opera that had foolishly been rebuilt. No rumors of the Phantom's fury reached her ears, and so she felt it safe to journey back. She had to see Meg, to tell her she was okay, and to see her beloved friend once more. In her heart, she knew there was more to it, _but just for now_, she thought sadly, _I will try to forget the angel of music and his lies…_

She stood up and felt the full force of the wind. It had only been two years ago that she had sang her love song with Roual. She closed her eyes tight and tried to summon that happy memory. All that came to mind was the day Erik had sang it to her, and the night her carried her back to his home as he set flame to the opera. Her eyes opened in a flash and she soon found herself running down the stairs of the opera, until finally she was at the old dressing room she had called her own for less than a year.

The door opened easily, and Christine cautiously stepped inside the dark room. As she lit a match lying on the side of a candlebra, light filled the room and she gasped. Instead of her little costume rack, or her bed, there was an assortment of instruments circled around an ungodly felt only right to sit down on the dusty wooden bench. She gently placed her long fingers on the dusty keys, and looked around before ever so gently pushing one down. A loud groan filled the room, and she hastily removed her hands. Did he hear it? Did he know she was there? As she pushed the seat back and sprang from it, a leather case fell from the ceiling and hit her on the head. In dusty lettering, _Don Juan Triumphant _glared back at her chalk white face. Christine had always wondered what the ending was supposed to be…

Christine gave the work a final fearful glance and then with scorn, threw it across the room. She stepped back, and looked above her sharply. There was no gaping hole where it could have fallen. Just a small vent and Christine knew that it had not simply been lying there and had happened to fall accidentally. She felt her stomach heave, and new she was soon going to retch from anxiety if she did not leave. _Erik…why can you not leave me be, _she thought. Was his ghost here? God forbid…was he here, with her now?

She backed out of the room, and in her superstition, cried out before the lantern was blown out and before she would run out of the Opera and back to her hotel, "I hate you Erik! Leave me be you monster!"

Christine stayed away from the Opera house, but before returning home, she wrote a letter to Meg, and paid a maid in the Opera to give it to her. It read:

_Dearest Meg,_

_I know you must have been wondering where I have been. I cannot tell you all of what happened the day the fire broke out, except that The Phantom of the Opera let Roual and I go after he took me. Roual and I married, and now live far enough away so that he can never find us. Oh Meg, how I have missed you and mama! I tried to come back, but Roual forbid it! I wanted to find you, and take you and mama with us, but you disappeared! Oh Meg, please leave that place at once! It is not safe, and I fear he will come after all of us again…I know he is not dead…He told me this was not over before we left. While he lives, we will never be free. I will return to get you on the eleventh anniversary of the day I came. That way, only you will know, should this be intercepted… Meet me in our secret place, at midnight. Dress warm and just know I love you Meg._

_-Christine_


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: Disclaimer: The Phantom of the Opera was originally written by Gaston Leroux or something like that, and I in no way shape, fashion, or form own his characters or the captivating music created by the man who did such a splendid job on Cats The musical…you get the picture.

Again, I would be much obliged if you would REVIEW! Remember, I will be your friend for life! That includes a free fruitcake every Christmas…and a free I can of SPAM! (Kool-aid man comes in-) "Ohhhhh yeah!" Just kidding about the Spam, but seriously, REVIEW!

Part III of The Phantom of the Opera II

Meg gazed at the letter with mixed feelings. She was in her room, perched on the edge of a satee in a long black night robe. She was in the middle of loosening her corset when she had noticed the letter after returning from a dinner engagement with Mr. FitzHenery. Meg put it down with a sigh and resisted the urge to scream. How could Christine up and run off again! She had been so close…and yet, how could Meg be sure? Oh yes, nobody but Meg and Christine had known of the door leading to the wine cellars. They had found it one night when they were feeding sugar cubes to Caesar, the white stallion for Hannibal.

Meg got up from her seat and climbed into bed with the confused maelstrom of worry flooding her head. The anniversary was in one short month. Could Meg hold out until then? Would the Phantom stay hidden, and could Meg resist the urge to travel once again down that path to his dark world to find him?

The success of the "Phantoms" return spread the Operas fame even farther, and helped the tickets sell faster than anything the Count could have ever anticipated. As people gossiped about his possible existence, an idea came to the Countess that helped heal the damage done to her husbands name when she impersonated Erik. As the count sat down to breakfast one crisp December morning, she brought the thought to his attention delicately, and when his Patron and his composer found the idea quite intriguing, The count put his idea into play, and hired a writer and an investagator to carry the plan out.

"I have found nothing worth noting about this said Opera Ghost…except what I heard from Meg Giry. It seems a certain Saprano by the name of Chritine Daae was the apple of his interests when she resided here. Perhaps if you could find her…we could er, _tempt_ this man out of hiding," the investagator said lightly as he and the count paced around the warm office. Snow was blowing with a fury outside as a fir crackled merrily in the fireplace.

"We do not wish to find this man, if he is still alive," The count said haistly, goving the other man an appraising look, "just to merely find out a bit more about him. I have my composer and a very reknowned writer finishing up a little performance about him. If he was alive, then he would have thwarted my plans at exploiting his riveting past…"

"Then I am afraid I can not help you, sirrah. What I have told you is all that I can gather. But if I may, I think at this point it would not be wise to exploit his story," The investigator muttered. He held his bowler nervously in between his sweaty hands. "There uh, used to be a Joseph here at this very place before the fire. He er…died when the Phantom found him too meddlesome, sir. I'm just saying, sir."

When Meg saw the music sheets for the play, she nearly fainted. The count was herding all the cast and crew to the stage it seemed with an important announcement. His face was glowing with excitement, and in his hands he clutched a leather folder with the lettering flashing _The Phantom of the Opera._ Nervous mutters went around as everyone else caught sight of their new assignment.

"After the success of our gala, I heard from reliable sources that something fresh was needed. Ladies and gentlemen, I am please to inform you that we are going to be putting on a new performance, that I hope, will be an even greater success," He said to the crowd assembled. Meg shifted next to Barnaby. "I don't think you should do that, Mousier Le Count. _His _business is no one's but his own." But the older man merely smiled to her, and read out the parts. Meg was pleased to hear that only one part was realistic, and that was the Phantoms himself.

Practice went on late into the nights of everyday. December flew by and Meg unwillingly learned her part for the play. The songs were poor compared to the fire one felt in their heart with Erik's music, but the audience was not interested with the soft possessive hold of the music. They wanted a story to torment the mind and baffle the soul. They wanted a young boy forced into insanity because of his horrid disfigurement.

As the story went, Erik was a young boy cast out of his family when he was eight years old. After running away he went to join a monastery until they threw him out, and finally after he wandered around joining freak shows and circus's, he made his residence here at the Opera. The fire was cut out, as it was the count's feelings that after such a short time people would still be upset, but the story was a comedy of sorts portraying the Opera Ghost as a dumb phantom like man with a taste for mischief. The ending was about him stealing a check safety pinned to mm. Richard's coat, and them going insane in their determination to stump this phantom. There was no mention of his numerous killings or of us infamous escape.

After practice, Meg would always stop by the Ballet dormitories to check on the little Jemmies and Madam Faya. After attending to them, she would eat a simple meal, and almost always decline an invitation to dine with Barnaby. Recently however, he had taken to eating with the countess, and so that roadblock was out of her way.

But sometimes, when she was bored, Meg often went to the old dressing room. It was where she remembered searching for Christine when she had been lead by the Phantom three years ago. It was dusty, and the countess never came to toy with her instruments now that Barnaby filled her every thought. It was sad, Meg thought, at how little the count could understand, and yet how much he could see.

The dust that had gathered on the organ greeted Meg as she fell onto the stiff wooden bench. Next to her, the original script for _Don Juan Triumphant_ balanced on the edge of the wall. It stood proudly next to the cracked mirror that the count had not bothered to replace since the organ used to cover the entire thing.

Meg looked at her distorted image as she reached a tentive hand forward and pushed aginst the mirror. She had not expected anything to happen, but her mind hoped and her heart pounded frantically in her chest as the little pieces of glass fell to the floor and revealed a wall with little cracks on three sides. Below near the bottom, she felt a sort of hinge, and she groped around the mess of screws and springs until her deft hands caught hold of a latch. Once sprung, she was pushed out of the way as the mirror began revolving. With a desperate lurch, her hand shot out and stopped the mirror, revealing a dark, dank passage way.

With no mother to pull her back to safety, Meg crept into the passageway, and heard the wall swing close behind her. _Past the point of no return,_ she thought as her feet carried her down deeper into the mystery of her Beloved's tangled web of deceit.

(Please please please REVIEW and I will have this chapter up so fast your head will spin…okay...okay…not that fast, but a.s.a.p! SO please, sign in and help a lady out! I'll make the next chapter longer if you do…and remember, free SPAM!)


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: The Phantom of the Opera was originally written by Gaston Leroux or something like that, and I in no way shape, fashion, or form own his characters or the captivating music created by the man who did such a splendid job on Cats The musical…you get the picture.

Alright guys, it is time for me to nag you about reviewing! Please review. I promise if you review, I will stop badgering you with this announcement. And remember, FREE FRUITCAKE! Talk about motivation! Free fruitcake AND less annoying announcements! Life gets better every day!

Part IV of the Phantom of the Opera II

The candelabras on the wall had long tapers that remained unlit down the long expanse. Meg found herself wishing she had brought the matches or a taper of her own. As she continued walking on and on, sounds slowly began floating her way, and she finally discovered what was down below floor two.

As Meg climbed down the serpentine cobbled path, she saw out of the corner of her eye dark figures shoveling coals into huge colossal furnaces. They carried huge forks, and were covered in black soot. The red heat from the fire gave them a demonic glow that sent shivers down Meg's body. They paid no attention to her as she scurried out of their view and down past the long wide tunnel that opened up into the entrance of Rue Scribe, the vast lake that covered so much of underground Paris.

There was a large metal gate that reached high above Meg's outreached arm. A formidable looking locked keyhole was all that separated Meg from a small docked boat. With a groan she tapped the gate, and glanced around wryly. "This is the end of this adventure for me," she murmured and turned around. Her heart beat thundered in her chest as she prayed for a miracle. Her black lace gown trailed the wet ground sadly after her, until it caught on a little protruding nail.

Meg was there crouched on the ground in an instant, realizing that this nail was severely misplaced, and that it must be a latch. She examined it for a moment, and then pushed it down. Nothing happened until she twisted it sharply to her right, and then in a heartbeat, found herself free falling down a musty tunnel heading for wherever the Phantom had destined. She closed her eyes and waited for her imminent fall.

When she shot out of the tunnel, she fell into a waist deep pool of water. The room she was in was dark, but underfoot, she felt tile, and she new she was somewhere near the Phantom's house. Her breath became short and ragged as she hoisted herself out, and shivering, climbed onto cracked slick tiling.

She walked with her hands touching the walls, for she was afraid of what tricks could be ahead. She was silently cursing herself for her curiosity, for how would she get out of here? She walked at a steady pace down the same tiled hall for an hour, with its curving and dipping down deeper, never stopping, always alert for trap doors or just doors of any sort.

After she felt on the verge of exhaustion, she came upon the end of the hallway, and there in front, a tall oak door barring her way. But this time, there was no lock. She pushed the door open, and as it groaned on its ill used hinges, light flooded into the hallway, illuminating her soaking body.

She remembered every detail as though she was there like on the day of the fire. The huge tapers alight with steady glowing flames, the little hallway with the small doors, each filled with furniture and expensive oddities. She remembered seeing the large black canopied bed with the lush red lace, and finally, the spot where the Phantom's organ had been. The room seemed empty without its presence. Her breath caught in her throat as she entered Erik's house.

A new boat was docked next to the tile that dipped into the water. It bobbed pleasantly in the chilly water, the little metal decorations on its exterior flashing in the candle filled room.

As meg walked through the house, she found herself staring at a wall filled with broken mirrors…on of the mirrors was half covered by a thick hanging drape, the other half was broken away and exposed a narrow passage way. Her memory clicked and the final piece of the puzzle fell into place.

"The angel sees…the angel knows, he watches you, Mademoiselle, wherever….you…go…"

Meg spun around and felt her knees nearly give way. The Phantom's cold voice filled the room, and in her horror she screamed. It was him, and there was no mistaking that voice, that for all its softness, for all its captivating beauty, was still male, and still quite deadly.

It was a mistake to come, her mind cried. The echo of the voice gradually faded away and Meg was left alone in the room that, for all its magical candles, was dark and dangerous. With no other option, she climbed into the dark passage way and began sprinting. If he can hear me, she thought, petrified, then he can hear this-

"I mean you no harm, E-Erik. I only wished to know if you,"-

There was a cold laugh, no really even a laugh at all, but a vicious hiss and it finned her very soul with an icy cold terror.

"Nobody can harm Erik…they have tried and failed. Oh yes, Meg Giry, I am still here. And I intend to make that quite obvious when it pleases me. I have nothing to hold me back now…I will take back what is mine."

Meg gave a half laugh, half cry, and began silently praying for a way out. _Hail Mary full of grace the lord is with thee…Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now… _As she chanted her Hail Mary's, she felt her mother's words reverberate in her head, "…take back what is yours…"

As Meg found herself turning and following the dank twisted path ahead of her, she heard a faint voice mutter, "This particular tunnel leads to the entrance of Rue Scribe. Best be quick mademoiselle, and get back to the opera before it gets too….dark."

Meg arrived back in her room when the moon was high overhead and when her gown was dripping and torn, raggedly covering her shivering frame. She stripped, changed, and when she fell on to her bed sobbing, her mind was torn and filled with a maelstrom of confused emotions. She knew she should warn everyone and leave, for this could not end very well at all.

The other parts were more complicated, as love usually is, and those involved her staying with Erik, or at least being a companion to him. …_He always hated being alone, _her mother had said.

And then there was Christine, whom she loved more than anyone else, and hated her more than it felt humanly possible. Christine had everything, she did not need Meg's company as well. Besides, she already had a wonderful husband, which was more than Meg could say.

She fell asleep in terrified dreams of a massive fire and Christine being tortured and crying out to her. The scariest part was, The Phantom was the one torturing Christine, and Meg was helpless to prevent it.

When Meg was dressed and refreshed in a dark blue satin dress, she made her way to the count's office in haste with a dire warning of the impending danger that Erik posed. She found him busy muttering directions to Jacques the stagehand as preparations were under way for _The Phantom of the Opera. _

"Monsieur, I must speak with you immediately…it's about the Opera Ghost. He's back."

Meg was seated across from the serious thin lipped count in a dim office shortly after she stole him away from his work. In his right hand, a handwritten copy of the play was glaring back at her. The count cleared his throat and stoked his mustache with his ring adorned left hand. "Meg…Meg…Meg," he said tiredly, gazing at her stark pale face with amusement and frustration. "I am too busy, much too busy for these cock and bull stories. The play must go as planned, and if this- Opera thing- has any qualms, then by all means, may he present them to me."

He gave his mustache a final stroke, and pushed the script towards her across the oak table. "You will play the love interest in the play, as planned, and if _you _have any qualms, then I can find someone else to do it."

Meg smiled at him, and nodded, while inside her head her conscious was screaming. "I will be honored to play Fillipa. Forgive me my paranoia. Its old nerves…the fire still haunts me. I suppose it was a-a prank played on me." She smiled back at him and held her opinion from his condescending glance.

The count smiled back, a phony annoyed look that told her that he could care less about the Opera Ghost as long as he was wealthy. "Well, we are quite aware that the fire was a result of electrical origins…you have nothing to fear now." But Meg knew in her heart that he was quite mistaken. If anything, she had more to fear, for the Phantom would be after blood now, revenge in its highest - not simply Christine's love. They were now at his mercy, and his mercy was very limited at best.

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	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: The Phantom of the Opera was originally written by Gaston Leroux or something like that, and I in no way shape, fashion, or form own his characters or the captivating music created by the man who did such a splendid job on Cats The musical…you get the picture.

Thank you kindly for the reviews! I promise to update a chapter every three days if I get a review every day or two! Even if the review is insulting my fruitcake or something! Love ya!

The Phantom of the Opera II 

Part V

The Phantom paced around his majestic music room, his satin cape flying behind his angrily. It had been almost two years since he had ventured to the surface. When he finally did, it was only to replenish is dwindling stock of food and wine. He hadn't anticipated any new occupants in his home. The fire and the rumors should have seen to that.

Now that he was aware of his new "manager" and the new inhabitants, any noise they made traveled the length of the five stories below to daunt him and provoke him to listen behind the walls. Some of his best passageways had been blocked up, but most were still there, as well as a few new ones he could use.

He stopped pacing for a moment and threw himself onto his wooden bench. The lingering trace of that Ballet rat Meg still lingered in his home, and with her scent came the painful memories of Christine. _Christine…oh how I hope you never return to this. Curse you…damn you…_

He slammed his fist on the old organ that he had recently moved back to his Music room. A chilling angry note pored into the room, and he let it wipe his mind blank before he gently removed his calloused hand.

After a while, he threw a warmer cloak on and turned to leave. He planned on seeing the rehearsal for his Opera. AT one time it would have angered him past bilief, for he wished no one but the select few to know of his existence, but now it amused him. The whole thing amused him. He had nothing to keep him in check, for he feared no one seeking him out.

If everyone wished to beilve he was dead, then they could be unpleasantly surprised when he returned. He lsot Christine, his peace, his way of life. The least they could give him as his quiet. "If that damnable Persian would remove himself from my business, then I could extract my revenge more immediately," He muttered.

As he moved into a tunnel leading to the stage, he took a moments pleasure in thinking a forbidden thought about Christine. It had been so long since he had felt sorrow about her departure. Now, he felt cruel rage, and when he did let her innocent face enter his mind, he wished nothing but pain and torture on her. _I do indeed hope you never return here, Christine. For it surly will bring you misery and oh so much pain…_ He laughed, and disappeared into the darkness.


End file.
